


Duncker's Candle

by tielan



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Comfort Sex, Developing Friendships, F/M, Post-Avengers (2012), happy for now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22407568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/pseuds/tielan
Summary: Dressed in worn jeans and a casual shirt, Maria Hill looks universes away from the competent aide who moved about the helicarrier control room in the sleek S.H.I.E.L.D uniform, a cool-eyed officer who kept her head in a crisis, and commanded troops with an authoritative snap to her voice. Her hand is tucked in the arm of one of the elderly residents of the hospice, and she's laughing as the old lecher pats her hand with a distinctly proprietary air.The amusement drops from her face as she recognizes him. "Rogers."OR:familiar and unfamiliar contexts in a new world.
Relationships: Maria Hill & Steve Rogers, Maria Hill/Steve Rogers, Peggy Carter/Peggy Carter's Husband (background), Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers (unresolved), Steve Rogers & Peggy Carter
Comments: 9
Kudos: 140





	Duncker's Candle

The second time Steve goes to see her, Peggy suggests he make a regular visitation time. “It’s not that I don’t want to see you, Steve, but a routine is easier on everyone.”

Steve sees her point. Plus, Peggy has a family who probably want to see her, and they don’t need him crowding their space. Well, he doesn’t actually want to see them, either. In fact, the thought of the children and grandchildren by the man she eventually married make him feel vaguely sick.

So he arranges with the hospice staff that he’ll be there the second Friday of the month, 1030 hours. If he’s not there, then it’ll probably be because he’s on a mission of some kind.

Steve needs to see her. She’s last of the Howling Commandoes but for him.

He needs to see her; she’s Peggy.

On his way out of the facility, the doors slide open ahead of him, and two figures stroll through.

Steve starts to step out of the way, then halts.

Dressed in worn jeans and a casual shirt, Maria Hill looks universes away from the competent aide who moved about the helicarrier control room in the sleek S.H.I.E.L.D uniform, a cool-eyed officer who kept her head in a crisis, and commanded troops with an authoritative snap to her voice. Her hand is tucked in the arm of one of the elderly residents of the hospice, and the old lecher is patting her hand with a distinctly proprietary air.

The amusement drops from her face as she recognizes him. "Rogers."

"Hill. What are you—?" A moment later, he recalls himself to her companion. "Sir," he says courteously.

The guy – eighty, if a day - looks him up and down with narrowed blue eyes in what Steve’s instincts tell him is a frank threat assessment. He makes himself relax, the way Bucky and the Howling Commandoes had to teach him in London; he’s not the little guy walking in prepared to fight any asshole who thinks he’s a fairy, he’s just here to do his own thing.

"You know this stuffed shirt, Maria?"

A smile ghosts the corners of her mouth. "I do, Mr. C. And the stuffing comes in useful from time to time."

‘Mr. C’ laughs, a deep chesty rumble. "I'm sure it does. He's certainly decorative enough!"

Her laugh rings out as his nape burns and while he hates the embarrassment - God knows he's lived with enough of it through the years - he still glimpses the momentary speculation in Hill's eyes as she contemplates him as more than just 'Captain America' or whatever it is that she's seen him as up until this point.

"Are you just going in?"

"I was just leaving, actually," she tells him, and shoots Mr. C a pointed look. "I got hijacked by someone looking for company."

"What else should I do when going for a walk, but hijack good company? But, see, he thinks I'm a lecher," the guy smirks at Steve. "Which I might be if I were fifty years younger. Since I'm not, I'll cede the field with grace." Faded blue eyes twinkle at Steve, before he leans down and expectantly offers his cheek to Hill. She rolls her eyes, but pecks him on the cheek with only the faintest sign of annoyance. He pats her arm and grins. "Go forth and kick ass, I believe they’re saying these days?”

Hill gives him a look, and strides off towards the parking lot with nothing more than a nod at Steve.

Steve starts off after her, but the man turns and looks him in the eye. "You don't know me from Adam, which is just as it should be. But I've known that girl since she was sixteen, and she's a hell of a woman. If you've got half as much brain as you have muscles, you'd make a move instead of waiting for the end of the world again."

Steve blinks. Make a move? What the hell? He retreats to courtesy and shutdown.

"With all due respect, sir, that's none of your business."

But the old man just laughs. "Well, suit yourself, son! I'm just calling it as I see it." And he moves off towards the residential area of the hospice, greeting the desk admins and the nurses and other residents as he goes.

Steve gives him one annoyed look and follows after Hill.

She's already gotten her jacket on and zipped up, and is turning her helmet around in her hands when he strides up.

"Were you here to see Peggy?"

The helmet comes down to rest on the handlebars of the bike, revealing an expression carved from ice. "I didn't realize that was any of your business, Rogers."

Abruptly, Steve realizes just how out of line that question was. Or maybe not even the question, just the tone he'd set it in - interrogative, like he had the right. And he sees that he's coming at this all the wrong way, struggling with the sight of Peggy in a nursing home, slowly losing all the parts of her that were amazing, dealing with the fact that she married...

He closes his eyes and mentally curses himself. When he opens them again, though, there's no relief from the hard aquamarine of Hill’s gaze.

"I'm sorry," he says. "You're right. It's not my business. I just..." But he's not going to explain himself in a parking lot. "Can we start this conversation over? Do you have a minute now? Enough time to grab a cup of coffee?"

Hill blinks and her gaze grows calculating. “Did you literally want a cup of coffee, or did you just want to know what I’m doing here?”

Honesty compels him to say, "I mostly want to talk. But I'd prefer to do it over a cup of coffee. And a snack. If there's anywhere around here."

This time, the look is measuring - not quite the threat assessment that 'Mr. C' put him through - but wary all the same. After a few moments, though, she softens a little.

"There's a diner about fifteen minutes down this road, back in to the city. They do good coffee and light meals, and it'll be quiet at this time of day."

"I'll meet you there,” Steve tells her.

* * *

They don't quite race to the diner, but Hill accelerates like someone's in hot pursuit of her - although once she hits the limits she stays within them - and Steve isn't about to let her have all the moves. They make the diner in just over twelve and a half minutes. It’s a rustic-looking truck stop with a diner, a gas station, and a few 'general stores' with camping gear and other outdoorsy things. Dusty-leafed oaks climb the scrubby grey hill behind, and the gravel between the giant stone boulders at the roadside edge of the place is half made up of acorns.

Hill carries her helmet with her in one hand, the other sweeps the chestnut mass of her hair out from under her jacket collar. She doesn’t say a word to Steve until they reach the door, and he leans in past her to pull it open and hold it for her.

Rather than going through the door, she stops and looks up at him. "You realize it would’ve been simpler to let me open it myself?"

"Maybe." Steve holds it open. "But it'd also be simpler to just step through it once I've opened it."

She steps through with the ghost of a huffy sigh - the merest breath of exasperation, and in spite of his frustration with her - and, really, every woman who's frowned at him when he's only trying to be courteous - Steve finds himself biting back a smile.

Inside, it's well-lit and reasonably busy. There are glass windows fronting the diner, looking out over the street and providing natural light, but the westward side is enclosed and largely deserted, and it's to one of these tables that they're lead after Hill indicates it to the server.

They order drinks - two plain coffees - and Steve hesitates over a slice of pie, until Hill orders a cherry one with cream on the side. Steve orders the apple. The waitress takes the order, wipes up a crumb that's been revealed by Hill's restless movement of the paper napkin dispenser, and bustles off.

Hill sits with her back to the wall, hands resting on the table. The nails are neat and trimmed but short and unpainted. A working woman's nails, Steve thinks, then has to remind himself that that's a meaningless phrase now. The indicators he once used to work out who people are aren’t relevant anymore. Any woman can work these days, including those with a husband and children.

He's not sure he gets that.

But the thought of not understanding a woman's decision to work leads back to Peggy - _I don't see why a beautiful dame would want to work in the army_ \- and the thought of Peggy with a husband and children— Someone _else_ —

He can't go there. Not yet.

"Do we need to take this out to the parking lot so you can punch one of those boulders into rubble?" Hill asks. Her expression is still and a little wary, maybe drawn about the eyes, and Steve hastens to reassure her.

"No, I'm fine," he says immediately. Then he hesitates. He'll have to ask about Hill's connection with Peggy at some point but...maybe it can wait a few minutes? "Back at the hospice...that guy - Mr. C - said he'd known you since you were sixteen."

"He was a regular at my grandfather’s barbershop in Little Italy," she says, shortly.

"You're from New York?"

“Originally from Chicago. I came to live with my grandparents after my father died." She smiled thinly. “Just a transplant, not a native – and I know better than to claim I am," she replied. "But you wanted to know how I know Peggy."

He shouldn’t be surprised she’s cut to the heart of the matter. He met her two months ago, and even then she didn’t seem like a woman to take much beating around the bush. "Yes. If you’re willing to tell me.”

"She sponsored me into S.H.I.E.L.D."

Steve blinks. “I thought S.H.I.E.L.D takes its personnel from the Academies.”

“Most of the technical staff, yes. Operations tends to require a bit more life experience – a recommendation from an agent is necessary before they’ll take someone in - and they tend to already have some form of military or paramilitary training.” She tilts her head a little when he hesitates. “Spit it out, Rogers.”

“You can’t be that old.”

A smile flickers about her mouth. “Well, we’re all spring chickens when it comes to you.”

“I mean, Peggy came off active duty twenty-five...thirty years ago. You can't be older than thirty.”

“Are you asking my age, Rogers?” Hill arches a brow, then notes, “Director Carter was technically retired by the time we met. On assignment, but still retired. I encountered her while she was on that assignment and…helped her manage a situation. She was impressed enough with my work that she recommended me for the Academies.”

“Marines?”

“Good guess.”

“Maybe I read your file.”

“I don't think you have clearance yet. And if you _had_ read my file, you wouldn’t be questioning why I came to visit Peggy.”

Their coffee and food comes, and they send the server away assuring her that everything is fine for the moment, thank you.

"The apple pie's good," she says, digging her fork in. "But the cherry is better."

Steve tries his pie - and it _is_ good. Maybe a little sweeter than he's used to, but then, it seems everything is sweeter than he's used to. "So she sponsored you into S.H.I.E.L.D?"

"Along with others since the Academy's inception." Hill shrugs and turns her plate towards him in invitation to try the cherry.

She's right. The cherry _is_ better. Steve savours it while Hill smirks at him.

"Do the others visit her, too?"

"Maybe - I've never asked her." One corner of her mouth pulled up at the side. "It's not like a club, Rogers. We don't have a secret handshake. There might be a dozen of us or several hundred. So far, you're the first person associated with S.H.I.E.L.D that I've met visiting her."

"So how do you know there are others? Maybe you're the only one."

The look Hill gave him was glittering and amused. "I know of at least one other. And if there are two, why not more?"

Steve recalls a conversation - just a brief chat, really - during a night when the London rain beat against the windows upstairs, and the mud trekked everywhere in the underground headquarters of SRS Intelligence. _There aren't enough of us. Women, I mean._

 _Should there be?_ He'd seen her expression and hastily backtracked. _I mean, I understand why you... You're not like most women._

_Oh, Steve. I'm exactly like most women. I just had good luck and opportunity, and men around me willing to concede that I could do what they could._

_But, I mean, you don't think like...other women. You..._ The words that had run through his head had been, ' _you're as good as any man_ ', which wasn't at all the thing you said to a woman you were in love with. _You're clever, you don't react wildly—_

 _Because I'm not allowed to react,_ she said. _I'm not allowed to be the hysterical female, even if Colonel Haigh can shout and bellow and throw things around when he doesn't like what he hears. And, too, a new perspective helps. Remember Jim's insight into the foray back in February, because if he was home, his family would be celebrating the Chinese New Year? Maybe we'd have thought of it eventually, but he thought of it immediately and saved us all time.Women have a lot to bring to the table, Steve; the problem is that men don’t want to recognize that._

"She would have sponsored other women, once she had the power. As many as she could..." And she would have picked not just capable women, but women who could connect with other women, too. Because Peggy had never thought just one step ahead. "Would I be allowed access to your file?"

"If you really wanted it." Hill eyes him. "Do you need to know my history, Rogers?"

"Maybe I'm curious."

"Why?"

_Because she saw something in you, and maybe if I see that, I'll start to understand the woman she became - the woman I never had a chance to love._

"I read the files on the others," he says. "They gave me...insight into working with them. I don't think Fury's appraisals were correct, but I read them anyway."

Hill shrugs and sets down her spoon on the table. "He's the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. They pay him to be cautious. You can put in an application for access to my file, and both Fury and I will authorize it."

"And if Fury doesn't?"

"Then I'll make the request and he'll authorize it."

"You have a lot of faith in your boss."

"If I didn't, he wouldn't be my boss."

Which is a fair call. But it makes him wonder how much she knows of Fury - how much of his policies she agrees with. Can he deal with a woman who's so comfortable with the compartmentalisation that S.H.I.E.L.D employs? Can he respect a woman who seems to trust Nick Fury without question?

And perhaps the question at the heart of it is: why does he need to?

Hill indicates the plate of pie in front of her. There's at least half of it left - apparently she didn't have much appetite once she started it. "Do you want it?"

"You're not going to finish it?"

"No."

As he pulls it over and starts on the remainder of the slice - tart cherries, lightly spiced - Hill draws her coffee over and cups her hands around it. Steve watches as she closes her eyes, her lashes thick and dark against her cheeks. For a moment, she looks haggard, the pinch of her mouth at the corners betraying her internal struggle.

Her lashes flick up, and her expression goes smooth and inquiring as she finds his gaze on her. "What?"

He doesn't really want to ask her what's happening. They're not close, just fairly casual acquaintances a couple of weeks after a big battle; but he's here, and there's something on her mind today...

“Are you okay?”

She blinks for a moment. “Of course.” Then her mouth tightens. Her expression tenses, her eyes drop closed, lashes pressing down in what’s clearly an attempt to hold back tears.

Alarmed, Steve begins to reach out, but she stands. “Excuse me.”

He scrambles to his feet, but when he starts to speak, her hand comes up to stop him. She makes for the restrooms, leaving him half-standing in the empty diner, while the server watches him from behind the bar.

Steve sits back down slowly and stares at the plate of pie.

Apparently Hill’s not okay, then.

So what does he do now?

"Uhh, sir? Is everything okay? The food? Did you...did you want another coffee refill?"

"Yes, please. Wait, maybe hold until the lady comes back, thank you." Steve figures he can wait for her return before getting the refill. He doesn't know how long she'll be, or whether she'll want coffee when she returns.

He finishes the pie, although he suddenly has no desire for food. It fills the hole in him at least, and he sits back and swirls the last of his coffee in his cup, wondering if he needs to go after her, just how bad whatever it is that she's facing is.

Footsteps behind him, brisk and familiar. A moment later, Hill slides back into her seat. Her expression is careful and stiff, the primly polite look that she gave him the day they met on the helicarrier deck. "I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be. It's my fault - whatever I said."

She signals the waitress for coffee, and waits until her cup is full again before she looks at him. Her eyes have that suspicious redness about them, but she’s otherwise composed. "Things have been busy. Clean-up of New York is going slowly, although major roads and connections have been cleared and fixed up." Her voice is a little throaty, but strong enough, and her gaze doesn't waver. "Unfortunately, New York already has experience of this degree of destruction, although not quite so widespread."

It seems they’re not going to discuss what Steve said or why Hill needed to take a break.

All right then.

“Has Stark offered assistance yet?”

“At a price.”

"And has Fury taken him up at that price?"

Hill’s smile is almost as dry as Steve’s words. " _S.H.I.E.L.D_ has negotiated the contractual use of the technology. Warily, since it's Stark doing the offering," she adds with dry emphasis and what's almost a shadow of a smile. That fades a moment later. "The death toll is unlikely to rise much more – most of the dead have either been identified or claimed. There’s only a...handful of people who haven’t been found or reported in safely.”

And there’s the tremble in her voice.

"I’m sorry.” Steve offers the apology quietly, firmly. She's lost someone who was important to her - he can tell that much. And if a busy diner and a cup of coffee isn't as atmospheric as a burned out pub and a bottle of whiskey, he doesn't imagine the pain is any less. But thinking about Peggy's hand on his shoulder makes him think about things that are gone and lost to him. And he can't face that right now. Someone else's grief is an easier burden to bear in this moment. "If you want to talk...?"

Her fingers flex around her coffee cup as a shadow of mocking bitterness convulses across the sharp, proud features. "I don't want to _talk_ , Rogers!"

Steve blinks, a little surprised at both the snap in her voice and at the insinuation in the word. Does she mean...?

Twin flags of colour rise in Hill's cheeks. She drops her gaze to the coffee cup and it clatters on the saucer before she raises it to her lips and drains it. This time it clinks when she sets it carefully back, the handle at precise right-angles to the table edge. When she looks at him, the flush has mostly faded, and her eyes hold neither apology nor remorse. "Was there anything else you wanted to know about me today, Rogers?"

"No," he says, and reaches for his wallet.

When she puts money down on the table, he starts to push it back at her, but encounters her fingers firmly planted on the table. He could keep pushing, but basic courtesy makes him stop.

"For my half of the order."

"I ate half your pie!"

She just looks at him as though he suddenly declared himself _Loki, come in glorious power._ "For. My. Half. Of. The. Order."

It feels wrong, but Steve knows better than to argue. He puts down his bills, and stands, stepping out ahead of her as she grabs her helmet from beside her and slides out. He slings on his jacket and trails after her towards the door, briefly thanking the waitress who’s coming over and asking her to pass the compliments on to the chef for the pies.

Then he hustles after Maria, who’s already halfway across the parking lot to their bikes.

Maybe it's the way she steps, like she's grinding his courtesies to dust beneath her bootheels; or maybe it's the way she swings onto her bike and holds her helmet in her hands, ready to dismiss him, put it on, and drive away. Maybe it’s because he’s thinking of Peggy and what he’s lost, never to have.

Maybe it's the curl of something in his gut that he hasn't felt since he woke up in the future a month ago.

Desire.

It spins through him, sharp threads of tension winding tight around his chest and belly.

Steve reaches out and catches her wrist with his fingers.

Hill's eyes fly to his face but she doesn’t ask what he’s doing or wrench herself from his grasp, just waits for him to get his tongue and temper around the words as the steady tattoo beneath his fingertips slowly speeds up.

“I’m willing not to talk.”

She blinks, astonishment as plain as the sweep of her lashes, as the curving bow of her mouth.

Heat is seeping across Steve’s cheeks. He's never propositioned a woman before - never even come close. And to do it so bluntly and openly...? Two months ago, he wouldn't have said he had it in him. Now, Steve knows that what he wants isn't decent, but her pulse hammers like gunfire beneath his fingertips and the curl in his gut isn't even close to nice. And she propositioned him first.

He doubles down. "Do you have anywhere else to be this afternoon?"

"It's my day off. I didn't have plans." The statement is measured and deliberate – as measured and deliberate as the look she gives him: a woman’s careful appraisal of his body and the uses she could find for it. "What did you have in mind?"

* * *

Steve doesn't let himself think about what he's doing as they ride back to his apartment.

He doesn't let himself think about what they're doing as they park their bikes side by side in his parking space and go up to the apartment that's so new he still hasn't started filling the shelves. S.H.I.E.L.D made suggestions, of course; he took some of them, left others. He still doesn't know who he is in this new world, or even who he wants to be anymore, and...

He pauses in the act of unlocking the door, suddenly not sure he can do this.

Her hand slips over his on the doorknob. "Don't overthink it," Hill says, and there's a tremble in her voice that matches the hesitation in his heart, and suddenly it's not just him and his uncertainties anymore.

That makes it easier to push the door open and usher her in, easier to take her helmet and set it down on the coffee table with his, easier to step in for the first kiss - fiercer than he expected, a little rough. And suddenly he doesn't want to do this gently anymore than she does.

It's been a while - nearly two years in his time - since leaving America. The USO chorus girls were, well, girls who made a living on the stage, with all that the lifestyle implied. He learned a thing or two from them. Then, once he got to Europe, the women were willing but he wasn't. Peggy's accusation of _now you're a soldier; just like the rest of them_ rang in his ears every time he got an invitation, and he turned them all down because of her.

And then she married someone else while he was gone! The calendar may say it was seventy years, but Steve feels it like he was absent a couple of months at most, only to come back and discover the woman he loved found someone else.

And Steve can't deal with that – can't even _think_ about it, because if thinks about it then he’ll feel it and he doesn’t want to—he can’t—

With Hill’s hands on his skin, and her mouth in his, Steve can focus on what he has in this moment. It won’t stop the hurt, it won’t change anything, but he doesn’t have to think _now—_

Hill isn't slow about stripping him naked, isn't modest about her body or her desire. She knows exactly what she wants from him, and she's not shy about taking it. And Steve gives her what she wants - what he wants - without question or hesitation.

There’s a recklessness in losing himself in the pace of his heart, in the rush of blood and breath. There’s a triumph in fucking her with his tongue until her knees give out. There’s a pleasure in carrying her to his bed, and climbing in with her, stroking damp flesh until she’s growling, then slipping on the condom and letting her take him like an empress claiming a spoil of war.

She rides him hard and fast, her breath hot and jagged against his temple. And Steve tilts his head back to claim her mouth only to find her eyes closed, the lashes thick and dark against her cheek.

Rebellion tightens his belly. Suddenly he wants her to look at him, to be the man she's fucking and not just the body she's using. He knows he's not the man she wants, just as she's not the woman he wants, but this is still intimacy and he'll be damned before he lets her make it generic.

Hill’s in his bed; she’s going to be in bed with _him_.

So he holds her firmly against him and rolls them down into the sheets so she’s underneath him.

"What—?" Hill gasps, arms hard around his neck, eyes flying open as Steve settles on top of her. "Rogers—!"

“Shhh.” His weight limits her range of movement against him. While he can move against her as he wants, she’s pinned by his elbows and his body and his hips. He thrusts lightly, sliding his fingers between them to touch and press and tease. Her lashes flutter down again.

"Look at me." His voice is rough, almost hard. Somehow it matters that she's fucking _him_ and not someone lost to her - just as he's fucking her and not the woman he can't have.

Hill gasps and clenches around him, and he presses his cheek to the line of her jaw as she arches underneath him, her fingertips digging into his buttocks. They won't leave marks, but he wants them to, wishes she could. But with her pleasure seen to, Steve can lengthen his thrusts in her, riding her to his own release... Closer...closer...closer...

Senses shatter, tingling through his body from crown to toe. Pleasure wrings him out in the elated sensations of release, and the voice urging him on is hers, rough and husky. Overwhelmed and well-used, Steve allows himself to collapse on top of her.

He doesn't know how long they lie there, it might be minutes and it might be hours. But the air is thick with the scent of them, soft with the sound of their breathing, The noises of the neighbourhood in the midafternoon drift through the closed window, and Hill makes no move to push him off, and if she’s content to lie there, then so’s he.

But they’ll have to move eventually – the condom needs to be dealt with, and he’ll be growing hungry soon...

With a sigh, Steve pushes himself up on one elbow.

And stops, because tear trails glitter from the corner of her eyes and down the sides of her face. She blinks and more tears roll out before she averts her gaze and begins easing herself out from beneath him. He lets her up, because he doesn’t want her to feel trapped, but he catches her wrist because he thought—she never said anything—

“Was it—? Did I hurt you?”

Her expression stills for a moment. Then she gives a brief laugh and smears at the tears with her free hand. "No. You were…good. Better than good." She exhales on the ghost of a sob, then takes a deep breath and meets his gaze. "May I use the bathroom?"

"Sure— No," he realizes suddenly. "Wait."

The bathroom is neat enough, he thinks, but still— He deals with the used condom, washes his hands, and finds her a towel, a hand-towel, and a washer among the linen.

"I think that's okay now," he says, pulling open the door. "You can take a shower if—"

He pauses. Hill's collected her clothing, but hasn't yet pulled any of it on. The tear trails aren't visible anymore, but she doesn't drop her gaze to hide the red of her eyes. Her shoulders are back, her chin is lifted. For all she’s naked and barefoot in his room, she stands like she’s fully clothed, no hiding or hunching, no modesty or shame.

He barely hears her, "I think I'll be fine," as she walks past him, but turns to watch her go into the bathroom.

There’s pride there, and dignity, even with the tears and the loss of whoever it is that she’s grieving. And it steals Steve’s breath from his mouth. He’s never seen anything stronger or more beautiful in his life than that dignity.

Somehow, more than anything else he's done this afternoon, that feels like a betrayal.

He shakes himself, drags on some clothing, and goes out to the kitchen to boil some water. She might want a hot drink before she goes, and maybe a snack. He could certainly do with one. A jar of cookies, a couple of mugs...

Staring at the cupboards, Steve wonders if he's supposed to offer her a meal? It was never this difficult during the war. The USO girls were there for a good time, and Steve was glad to give it to them, but they all knew it was temporary, no strings attached.

This is different. They work together – meaningful, important work that matters. He doesn’t think strings came with the sex, but what does he know?

Steve fills a glass of water and sets it aside for her, then fills one for himself and drinks it down. When he lowers the glass, Hill is just emerging from the bedroom, clothed and cleaned up. Her eyes are still a little red, but she looks...normal.

He indicates the glass on the counter. It's probably best to try for casual. "Hey. That's for you."

As she drinks it, he fills another glass and comes over to the counter. "Are you okay?"

"Of course."

There’s no ‘of course’ about it, but Steve just opens the cookie jar and offers her one. "Walnut and choc chip cookie."

She looks at him like he's offered her mouldy cheese. "I don't need looking after, Rogers."

Looking after? "I'm not— This is courtesy," he counters. "You're a guest in my house, I'm offering you refreshments."

Hill takes a cookie, eats it in slow and thoughtful bites.

Steve bites back a smile and offers her a drink.

“Water’s fine.” She looks around at the new apartment thoughtfully – or maybe just to avoid having to make conversation with him.

Steve waits for her gaze to fall back on him before asking, “So...what happens next?”

“What happens next?” Hill blinks. "What happens next is that I go back out and continue on with my day, you go and clean yourself up and continue about your day, and we don't talk about this again."

Startled by her forcefulness, all Steve can say is, “Okay.”

"I...We needed each other this afternoon. I’m grateful for that. But...I don’t think it’s wise to continue this – if we even want to. And...” She winces a little. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anyone."

“Loose lips sink ships?”

“Or careers.” Her gaze is steady and wary.

Steve nods in dawning realisation of what she might have risked coming here this afternoon. “I won’t kiss and tell,” he promises.

“Thank you.”

Hill finishes the cookie in small neat bites, feeling no need to hold up the conversation. And Steve has a second cookie, although what he really wants is a sandwich. But it doesn’t feel polite to make that until she’s left—

She stands and stretches, and Steve watches the shirt ride up her waist to reveal the small, reddish marks left by his teeth earlier, when he nipped the tender skin in teasing before sliding lower.

“Don’t even _think_ about a second round,” she says, flatly.

Steve bites back the instinctive denial, but he can’t quite manage to pull in the grin. Hill rolls her eyes as she turns and fetches her helmet.

As she pauses in front of the door, Steve hears the sound of his neighbour just coming in – she moved in a few weeks after him, a resident at Bethseda – and resigns himself to having to be seen letting a strange woman out of his apartment…

Then Hill pauses, reaches up, and draws him down for a kiss. Her lips move lightly against his – soft and sweet and brief – then she turns her head away a little, and sighs.

Steve smooths his hand down her shoulder, not sure what she’s asking, not sure what he wants of her.

“I’m sorry,” he says. She tilts her head back, surprised, before he adds, “About...everything.”

Her mouth twists a little, a small rueful acknowledgement. “So am I.”

Then Hill steps away, pulls open the door, and is gone out into the empty corridor and into the stairwell in six swift strides.

**Author's Note:**

> I have previously written a story I named [_Duncker's Candle_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1808425) which started from the same premise but was going to be a lot slower in execution. This story holds the same name because it's sort of an elaboration of that previous work, a lot less light-hearted, and with a whole lot of backstory/Reasons in my head. 
> 
> Unfortunately, those will almost certainly never be completed in fic form, but in the meantime, I hope you enjoyed this!


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